Offerings
by SopheroniPepperoni
Summary: She offers him a few moments of her time; he accepts, and offers small, inconsequential words in return. They build a repartee of sorts. The seventh time, she offers him her name.


**AN: I've had this idea bouncing around for a bit now, and have decided to go full steam ahead and publish it.**

 **I'm pretty happy with this one. Modern!AU.**

* * *

Offerings

It is a perfect autumn day.

Her afternoon shift is canceled; her portfolio is tucked firmly under one arm, art bag over her shoulder, as she listens to her friend.

"And then I thought, 'It's not every day you meet an acrobat from Brazil!' Wow, was he _flexible—"_

"Isabela! Please, stop!" She gives a scandalized laugh, one that is forced from her lungs in a breathy huff. She holds out a hand to stop her friend, not paying attention to where she is going. "I really _don't_ need to hear every sordid detail—"

"Oh, Hawke, _watch out—"_

And then she is on the ground, landing hard on her hands, her art supplies and sketches spilling across the pavement. Too startled to be angry, she looks up to see a tanned gentleman in dark clothes offering her a hand up. Flushing, she accepts it and he pulls her back to her feet easily.

"My apologies, miss." He stoops to gather her errant belongings. Hawke bends to help him, embarrassment hot on her cheeks.

"Oh, it's quite all right, really it's my fault, please don't worry—" But by then he has picked up all of her pencils and brushes and he is holding them out to her. Her words stumble to a halt as she nods her head in appreciation and offers a bashful smile. The sun glints off of her burnished curls as she tucks a strand behind her ear.

He offers a small smirk in return; he studiously ignores the salacious look the woman's friend is giving him. Instead, he stows his hands in his pockets, inclines his head in farewell, and takes his leave.

In his wake, Hawke watches him go, absorbing the last few peculiar minutes. Isabela is chattering excitedly at her elbow again.

"Oh, how utterly dashing, coming to the aid of a damsel in distress! And the way he lifted you! He most _certainly_ exercises— "

"Oh for the love of—ISBELA. Enough!" They continue to walk towards the studio; the conversation turns to safer, more innocent subjects (a rarity indeed for Isabela), but Hawke is too busy remembering the man's eyes.

They are the most perfect shade of moss she has ever seen.

* * *

She sees him again, surprisingly enough. The day is decidedly less than perfect, but Hawke has come to take great joy in simple things.

He walks into the café; she is the barista at the counter, and she recognizes his uncommon hair and those _eyes._

She is suddenly self-conscious, for some unfathomable reason, and is painfully aware of how clichéd her life is: an art student working in a glorified coffee shop. How original she is.

If he is similarly aware of her clichéd situation, he makes no indication. Instead, he steps confidently to the counter, placing his order of black coffee –he's not so original either, Hawke idly notes. She feels unreasonably vindicated.

As she hands him his change, he asks "How are your hands?"

Caught off guard, she fumbles, nearly dropping the coins in her hand, sure to send them flying to the floor. She recovers. "My hands?"

His lips tilt upwards, the barest of movements. "Yes. You scraped them when you fell?" Amusement dances deep within his perfect forest-dark eyes.

"Oh! How did you—" She almost smacks herself, forgetful, and tries again. "They're healing well, thank you. Really, they were only scratched a little bit. Nothing too serious." She offers him another smile, her cheeks colored from bashfulness at her rambling.

He accepts it, and moves off to wait for his refreshment. He nods to her on his way out.

This time, Hawke remembers the deep timbre of his voice.

* * *

The next few times are neither perfect nor horrible. They just _are_.

She runs into him again –not literally— on her way from the studio down town, and then on her way to work later that week.

When he comes into the café, it is always in the afternoon and it is always black coffee. Sometimes he stays, and sometimes he doesn't. On the days he does, he sits by the window with a newspaper. Hawke brings him his coffee –what is _wrong_ with her—and tries to be friendly. On these days, she offers him a few moments of her time; he accepts, and offers small, inconsequential words in return. They build a repartee of sorts.

The seventh time, he actually asks her name.

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she answers, "Marian. But my friends call me Hawke."

He grins a bit at that. "Hawke? Are we friends, then?"

Emboldened, she holds his gaze steady. "If we're not, we could be." She offers her friendship so simply, and it is his turn to be startled.

He leaves that day, swilling the word "Hawke" around his mouth like wine; it is an acquired taste, but one he could come to appreciate.

She sees that he leaves behind a slip of paper on the now-unoccupied table, his offering in return. On it is written, in cramped handwriting, a phone number.

Under that, his name.

 _Fenris_


End file.
